


Little Boy Blue

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [2]
Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Modern AU, Not literally, Washingdad, Washingdork, gratuitous Queen, happy feels and sad feels both, just Washington acting in a dad-ly way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington is the director of a summer camp, and the newly-orphaned Alex is one of his campers. Fluffier than you might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: technically there's a blood draw in this, but there's no actual description of it. Alex in this fic has H.I.V.-- you can read the backstory in the previous fic "Bullet Points." (I am not is/r/a/a and did not know her. This fic was written before hers. I have never represented myself as having any medical conditions I do not have. I have never solicited donations based on my work.) 
> 
> FYI, I am picturing Washington as Chris Jackson. There is no Washington other than Chris Jackson in my head now. Even historical Washington has become Chris Jackson.
> 
> More details about Alex's backstory are available in Part 1 of this series, but this story will make sense without them.
> 
> Title is a reference not to the nursery rhyme, but to the song "Cat's in the Cradle."

“Red cabin is in drama today, so you’ll be down at the amphitheater, Yellow is science over at the lily pond, Green’s got art up in the lodge, and Blue cabin has the big hike this afternoon. Is everything clear?”

A chorus ranging from “Yes, Director Washington,” to “gotcha, Wash,” rings out from the campers, just now finishing up their breakfast.

“And”--Washington checks his notes-- “Alex Hamilton, would you come with me?”

“ _Ooh_ ,” says one girl from the Blue table, “Alex is in _trouble_ …”

“Alex is not in trouble, I just need to borrow him this morning,” Washington replies, and the girl goes red.

Alex gathers his silverware, glass, and plate and rises from the bench, placing them mechanically with the other dirty dishes before coming over to Washington. His face is pale, black eyes empty holes of dread. “Is my-- I mean, is everyone--”

“Just your checkup, you remember?” Washington says, and it’s amazing how fast the boy perks up. Washington places a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s stop by my office and then we can hit the road.”

Natalie Green, most indispensable of deputy directors, has everything under control, so Washington leads Alex back behind the lodge where the camp minivan is parked. Alex is tiny, but next to the car he looks even tinier. _How is this kid thirteen?_ Washington thinks, not for the first time. “The nearest clinic where they can do blood work and take the right insurance is a hundred miles away,” Washington says apologetically, “So unfortunately we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us.”

“That’s okay,” Alex says, walking around the car and clambering into the passenger seat. “Will we be back in time for me to go on the hike?”

“If you drink enough water throughout the day, and you’re feeling good, then yes.” Washington turns the keys in the ignition and gives him a skeptical look. “Do you weigh 100 pounds?”

“Definitely. I definitely weigh 100 pounds.”

“Get in the back seat.”

“But--”

“Back seat, Alex.”

Where most kids--certainly most kids with Alex’s personality--would argue the point further, Alex complies instantly. Washington feels a twinge of regret. They must be pretty strict disciplinarians at the group home.

Still, Alex is irrepressible. When Washington starts fiddling with the radio dial he is full of impassioned commentary about every song, until at last they alight on “Don’t Stop Me Now” and Alex insists they stop.

“--cuz I’m havin’ a good time, _havin’ a good time_ \--” Alex belts, and then cuts loose as only a kid can cut loose. Washington watches him in the rearview mirror, headbanging in the back seat, windmilling his arms and singing along twangily for the guitar solo. He remembers how quiet, how _watchful_ Alex was on the first day of camp, and compares it to now. Night and day. Sometimes Washington wonders if the camp makes any difference for these kids; if he might better serve them by taking more pro bono cases or lobbying for more human services funding instead. Moments like this, he knows he’s needed right where he is.

By the end of the song Washington’s face is starting to hurt from not laughing, and Alex is panting for breath. When at last Washington trusts himself to speak, he says, “I never figured you for a Queen fan, Alex.”

“My dad taught me music,” Alex says proudly. “He taught me all the best stuff, but Queen’s my favorite.”

Washington knows Alex’s file well, because he read it over four times trying to decide whether to admit the kid to camp. The camp is supported in part by the state of Virginia; he’d had to move all kinds of money around to squeeze a Californian orphan in. But Alex’s social worker had insisted that he needed to go far, far away from where the other kids knew about his HIV, that he was being bullied mercilessly and needed a fresh start with completely new people. And the social worker had been dead-on: all the counselors have been raving about Alex, about how smart he his, how fearless, how full of talent and energy.

Alex’s file says, “father’s name: James Hamilton; father’s address: unknown; father’s occupation: unknown,” and yet here Alex is, proudly claiming the man who seems to have failed to claim him. Washington feels a wave of pity for the boy. “You know, Freddy Mercury had what you have,” he says. “Maybe that’s why your dad showed his music to you.” He knows how important it is for kids to have role models of their own… kind.

“Freddy Mercury’s dead,” Alex says flatly, and doesn’t talk for the rest of the car ride. Washington concentrates on the winding mountain roads, the trees in their full summer green, and thinks, _be careful with this one_.

 

* * *

 

“Well, here we are,” Washington says awkwardly, opening Alex’s door.

Alex drops to the pavement and gives Washington a hesitant smile. “Doesn’t look so bad, I guess.”

It’s a pretty standard little town in rural western Virginia, but Washington knows an olive branch when he sees one. “I grew up not far from here.”

“Nice,” says Alex, completely uninterested, already trotting for the door of the little clinic. Washington follows, paperwork in hand.

Alex already has a clipboard and pen when Washington reaches the front desk. He sits down in a waiting room chair and quickly begins filling it out, legs swinging idly as he works.

“Er, Alexander, I believe that I’m supposed to fill that out.”

Alex looks up. “Why?”

“Today I’m acting _in loco parentis_ , it means--”

Alex bursts out laughing. “Like a crazy parent?”

Right, native Spanish speaker. “Actually, _in loco parentis_ is Latin, it means--”

“Chill, sir. I’m almost done.”

Washington blinks, disoriented by the juxtaposition of “chill” and “sir.”

“See? Done.” Alex signs the form himself, then hands it to Washington. Washington skims over it, but everything is perfectly in order. He’d have had to copy down everything laboriously from Alex’s file; Alex got it done much faster himself. He signs the line marked “parent or guardian” and hands the form in.

“In place of a parent,” Alex says.

“I’m sorry?”

“In place of a parent. That’s what _in loco parentis_ means. Loco, like location. The Latin word is _locus_. I’d only ever heard it used in math before but obviously the meaning’s the same. Do you speak Latin?”

“Only phrases. They’re common in law, which I teach during the school year.”

“Why do lawyers use lots of Latin?”

Washington considers the question. “I suppose some phrases are jargon terms that mean something very specific. For the most part, though, I think it’s just to sound smart and prove they went to school a long time.”

“It’s a good thing they do, then, or you’d be out of a job,” Alex grins, and the nurse calls his name.

Washington and Alex walk back with her, and soon Alex’s feet are swinging from a different plastic chair and another woman is walking up.

“You’re the phlebotomist?” Alex asks, and Washington almost laughs, because of _course_ Alex would flash out a word like “phlebotomist.” Is he _flirting_? It’s rare that Washington actually notices physical attractiveness in other people, but he supposes, upon reflection, that the phlebotomist is pretty cute. He stifles a smile as he watches Alex’s sideways grin when he pushes back his sleeve.

The blood draw’s done so fast, and Alex is so calm about the whole thing, that Washington practically misses it. “We’ll call you with the results in 2-3 days,” the phlebotomist tells Washington, holding a little cotton ball at the crook of Alex’s arm. “His doctor will follow up if there’s anything unexpected with the CD4 count or the viral load. Really, as long as he’s been keeping up with his meds, everything should be fine.”

“Good,” says Washington, as she sticks a band-aid over the cotton ball. “Is that it, then?”

“That’s it!” Alex chirps. He turns to the phlebotomist. “You did a great job, by the way. That was one of the best blood draws I’ve had. Is that a weird thing to say?”

“Why, thank you! I don’t think that’s weird at all. I’m always happy when you’re happy,” she says, and Washington thinks, _watch out, ladies, Alexander Hamilton is coming to get you with big doe eyes and sincere compliments._

 

* * *

 

They’re not going to get back in time for lunch, so Washington takes Alex to Wendy’s.

“What do you want?” he asks, as they’re standing in line.

“I-- I don’t have any money,” Alex stammers, and Washington’s heart falls.

“I’m _in loco parentis_ today, remember?”

“That’s just a medical thing,” Alex says sourly.

“Alex, let me get you lunch. It’s the camp’s job to see you’re fed.”

“But this is _your_ money,” Alex insists.

“Alex, trust me, a single meal at Wendy’s is not going to cause me financial hardship. Not even if you order the whole menu.”

“I’m fine.” Alex crosses his arms over his stomach.

“If you don’t eat, you don’t get to go on the hike later.”

Alex’s face falls, but he remains resolute.

“Alex, I’m serious. You have to eat.” Washington sighs. “Alex, do you want to know how much a Wendy’s hamburger costs, expressed as a percentage of how much money I make in a year? Because it’s zero percent. It is such a vanishingly small decimal that I am unable to calculate it.”

“Fine,” Alex says, “I want the Baconator,” and it breaks Washington’s heart that, in the end, the argument that won him over was the one that meant, _this is nothing to me_.

Washington steps up to the counter and orders Alex’s meal, something for himself, two fries, and two Frosties.

“I get a Frosty?” Alex asks in disbelief.

“Do I look like the kind of man who would order two Frosties for himself? Don’t answer that,” Washington adds, as the corners of Alex’s mouth twitch.

They take a seat at a table outside, in the shade of the awning, and it’s just the level of slightly-too-hot to kick the ice cream up to peak deliciousness. Alex attacks his burger with so much vigor that Washington is shocked he was even thinking of going without. Washington takes a more moderate pace, but they both finish at the same time, Alex having faded in the homestretch. “I’m so full,” he groans, throwing his head back to the heavens.

“Good,” Washington says. The kid could stand to gain some weight. Washington begins methodically working on his fries, dipping them in his Frosty and eating them one by one.

Alex sits back up, eyes widening in horror. “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

“I,” says Washington, taking a fry--“am eating”--swirling it through the chocolate shake--“lunch”--and popping it in his mouth.

“Ew!”

“You know, son, there’s an ancient proverb about situations like this. Let me see if I can remember it. Ah, yes. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“Challenge accepted,” Alex says, flinging his napkin in the air for dramatic effect.

“Pick that up,” Washington says at once, and so Alex goes and throws the napkin away before returning to the table. “Messes are fine, not cleaning them up is not fine.”

Alex gives him a sour look that says _I know that_ , but he takes a fry, cautiously scoops it through his own Frosty, and eats it. His eyes go wide.

“You know how salt on chocolate is trendy now?” Washington says, pleased that he knows what’s trendy. Martha watches the Food Network, and so it is unavoidable that George also watches the Food Network. So unavoidable, in fact, that often he watches the Food Network when she’s not even in the house.

Alex looks confused. “There was a time when it wasn’t?”

So much for that. Washington feels old, but he perseveres. “Wendy’s figured that out _decades_ ago. Salt on the fries, chocolate in the Frosty. Genius.”

“I don’t know,” Alex says. In the end, he finishes his fries with ketchup, “like a normal human being,” he says, as Washington shakes his head in frank dismay, and drinks the rest of the Frosty as it melts in the car on the way back.

Washington lets him go on the hike. He deserves it.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you guys, you know what’s really good?” Alex says, a few of other campers gathered around him. They’re in the airport, camp already technically over, and in an hour he’s going to be boarding a plane back to California. Right now he just wants to savor the last few moments he has with his friends, though, so he pushes that depressing thought away.

“What?” says Kitty. He likes Kitty, he’s already excited at the idea of seeing her next year, and he can message her on Ned’s computer in the meantime. Director Washington promised him he could come back next year; it’s the only reason he’s not a total mess right now.

Alex grins and walks over to the airport Wendy’s. He’s got a crumpled five dollar bill, all that remains of his pocket money, but that’s enough for what he needs. “Hi,” he says, “I’d like a Frosty with fries, please?”


End file.
